The Apprentices
by Burleyman24
Summary: A young bard discovers an ancient tome detailing the adventures of a group of young apprentices - students of the Dragonborn himslef. Rated T for content (violence, possible canon swear words ex. milk drinker) Rating MAY become M in future chapters (Warning - OC's. Backstories will be provided.)
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The storyline is inspired by Bethesda's "Elder Scrolls" series (specifically "Skyrim"). While some characters are of my own creation, they are created using the mechanics of Skyrim, and must be attributed to Bethesda. Nirn, Skyrim, and other places found in this story do not belong to me, nor do many of the (hopefully recognizable) NPC's that play small and large parts in the story. This work is purely for the entertainment of the author, and, hopefully, some of the readers. I receive no monetary compensation for this work. I will endeavor to make it clear when parts of the story are canon, and when parts of the story are non-canon. As I am new to fan fiction, I hope you will take the time to critique and review. Thanks!

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The Bard's College of Solitude was very well known for its library. It was the largest in Skyrim, and immaculately kept – that is, when the fledgling bards weren't leaving the countless annals of the rich history of Nirn scattered about. The only reason the library was kept in any semblance of order was thanks to Tanis Brallion, the youngest apprentice of the Bard's College. He was, more often than not, regarded as a servant to the rest. He was a foundling, who had been raised collectively by the bards since he could remember. He had an affinity for story telling that could only come from years of listening to the masters. The heads of the College knew that one day he would rise to the top, and go down in history as one of the greatest bards who had ever lived. But, in an effort to teach a lesson in humility (afterall, a good bard knows his place - he is but a mouth piece to tell someone else's story) they allowed the treatment (with careful supervision).

Tanis had been carefully shelving volumes all day. They were in more of a disarray than usual. A great celebration was approaching, during which the apprentices of the college could present a work of any sort in an attempt to impress the masters. If they succeeded, they were granted the rights and title of a full-fledged bard. The apprentices, each eager to prove his or her skill, and been frantically searching for lost stories or songs to breathe new life into.

As he was placing one of the last books (a particularly heavy copy of The Book of the Dragonborn) he noticed a rather small, dusty volume pushed against the back of the shelf. The cover was a rather bland brown color that blended into the shelf, which would explain why the book seemed untouched. The title was scribed in faded gold – "The Apprentices." Intrigued, Tanis pulled the book from its hiding place and, after making himself comfortable, began to read…


	2. Chapter One - The Meeting

To the citizens of Solitude, he was just another street rat. He was a refugee, who had lost his family to the Stormcloaks. However, no one offered him their pity. While Solitude may have been the Bastion of Imperial might in Skyrim, dislike for the Thalmor, and the Altmer in general was bred into the natives of Skyrim. The boy was twelve years of age, but lack of proper nourishment left him looking far younger. Many mistook him for somewhere around the age of ten. His size, diminutive though it was, lent him a certain quickness, which he used to his advantage. He had to steal to survive, and the best way to do that was quickly, and quietly.

Dawn came with a chill, snow whipping across the sky, much as one would expect in the land of the Nords. The lad's golden skin and proud features, slightly marred by a sharp chin, marked him as comfortable in the warmer climes of the Summerset Isles.

The smoldering forge provided just enough heat to keep the boy from shivering uncontrollably. He took turns warming his hands and feet on the warm stones. He tried his best to sleep near the forge every night, because the stones usually held some semblance of warmth until morning. However, if he wasn't vigilant, the blacksmith would chase him off, brandishing hammer and tongs in a most threatening manner. With this picture in mind, the boy grimaced, and regretfully tore himself away, turning to face the bitter wind. Around the city, shopkeepers were beginning to open for the day.

With purpose, the boy set off towards the Radiant Raiment, Solitude's clothing store. He had noticed that the proprietors were Altmer like himself, and he hoped they wouldn't begrudge him some time inside, out of the cold. He earned himself quite the glare when he opened the door, sending the wind howling through the shop.

He walked over to the guttering fireplace, warming himself as he greedily gazed at the clothes around him. The shopkeeper searched his face with an appraising gaze, taking note first of his ragged appearance, and beneath the dirt and grime, his golden skin. She returned to her ledger, but the boy felt her gaze wherever he went. He gravitated to the more practical pieces of clothing. True winter was not yet upon them, and if he didn't properly attire himself, he knew he wouldn't survive.

The elfling settled his gaze on a new tunic, and a simple pair of leather shoes, knowing they would at least help in shielding his emaciated frame from the bitter elements. While the boy hated to repay the shopkeeper's tolerance with thievery, in the land of Skyrim, one had to fight to survive. The opportunity he was waiting for came when a strangely attired man entered the shop, bringing with him a gust of chill air. Peering form behind a rack of clothing, the boy studied the man. His features were hidden within the shadow of his cowl. The boy took note of his long, gray robes, which, while old, seemed well cared for. The man wore boots and gloves of elven make – the black and gold of the Thalmor. The boy wondered if this man was an agent of the Aldmeri Dominion. The man began to converse quietly with the shopkeeper. His curiosity waning, the boy turned back to the clothes he had chosen. He glanced around, making sure the shopkeeper was still occupied.

Taking advantage of her distraction, the boy quickly stuffed the blue tunic beneath his tattered smock, and, foregoing the shoes, hurried out into the street. He set a brisk pace, heading in the direction of his hideout near the Temple of the Divines, when he felt an iron vise clamp down on his shoulder. He was wrenched around, and the boy found himself staring into the calculating golden gaze of the hooded man from the shop. Reacting on instinct, the boy reached for the magicka singing in his blood, and, drawing on his rather meager knowledge of the school of Illusion, turned himself invisible. However, while most were usually startled enough to let go, the man's grip only tightened.

"I wouldn't do that again, boy," he growled. With a deceivingly simple gesture, the boy found himself visible once more. As he began to struggle in earnest, the man tore the stolen tunic from beneath his smock, splitting a seam on the boy's already tattered garment, leaving him with little more than a rag.

"Well, well. A mageling, _and_ a thief," the man said, chuckling to himself. The boy puffed out his scrawny chest, indignantly.

"I'm no thief! It's just that…" The boy seemed to sag in on himself. "With mama and papa gone, I have to take care of myself now." The look of defiance on the boy's face was shortly replaced by grief, before he once more buried his emotions behind a blank façade.

The man's eyes, until now glaring from beneath a hood, softened for a moment. With his free hand, he removed his cowl. The boy gasped, for the man was an elf, aye, but like no elf he had ever seen. The man's golden skin and proud features marked him as an Altmer, but the man sported raven tresses, and a sleek beard, knotted at the center. It was clear that this man was not an elf of pure blood. Bloody trails were tattooed beneath his eyes, coming to fierce points at the top of his collar bone. His features had a certain ruggedness to them, most unlike those the boy was accustomed to in the faces of elves. The man's brow was crowned with a heavy circlet that appeared to be of Dwemer make.

"Come with me lad, the man said gruffly. The boy was startled, having been lost in thought, trying to make sense of this strange creature in front of him. As they walked, his apprehension grew, for he realized he was being taken to Castle Dour. Hopelessness filled him, as he resigned himself to living the rest of his days in a dungeon, a plaything for prisoner and gaoler alike. The boy had heard the stories, yes, of terrible things done to prisoners, deep in the bowels of the keep. Tears began to trickle down his cheeks, but his face remained a stoic mask. His father had taught him to be proud.

"Never show weakness," he had said when tears of frustration had threatened after the boy had lost ahold of a spell for the umpteenth time. He was a hard man, but he was proud when his son showed improvement. He was a source of knowledge and encouragement, despite high expectations.

The pair soon found themselves in the castle's courtyard, where they approached Ahtar, Solitude's headsman. The heavily muscled Redguard was sharpening a wicked looking axe. He smiled at the robed elf as they approached, before tuning his gaze to the elfling.

"What do we have here?" he asked, leering down at the boy.

"I caught this rabble stealing from the Radiant Raiment," the elf replied.

"Stealing from your own kind now? You really are a rotten bunch, even if the empire tolerates you," the Redguard said, sneering at the lad. "Thieves in Solitude lose a hand, boy. Which shall it be?" he asked, hefting his axe.

"If you don't mind friend," said the High Elf, laying a hand on the boy's shoulder, "I'd like to see to the boy's punishment myself. He is, afterall, a kinsman," he said, squeezing the boys shoulder. Was that meant to be reassuring? The boy wasn't sure. But a cripple in Skyrim was as good as dead, especially without a proper healer or proper nourishment.

"I suppose, Valerian," grumbled the Redguard, seemingly disappointed. "Afterall, I'm sure this boy is nothing the Dragonborn can't handle."


	3. Chapter Two - The Dragonborn

The boy's heart quickened. He had heard rumors of the Dragonborn's return, but to think that _this_ man, strange though he appeared, could be everything that he had heard seemed nigh impossible. This man, in simple gray robes, Harbinger of the Companions? Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold? There were whispers that the Dragonborn was the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, Master of the Thieves Guild, and a member of the Dawnguard to boot. Some said he was a werewolf, others, a servant of Molag-Bal. How could a single man be all of these things? How could _he _be any of them? The boy's mind was boggled, and it was in a haze of confusion that he found himself boarding a carriage outside the city gate. Soon, they were rumbling across the tundra of Skyrim. His captor, as the boy had started to think of him, was watching him closely.

"W...where are you taking me?" he croaked, finding his voice.

"My home. Lakeview Manor," the man said. What was it that Ahtar had called him? Valerian? Seeming to read the look of confusion on the boy's face, the elf began to tell his story. "My name is Sílevon Valerian. I am the Dovahkiin, better known as the Dragonborn. It is likely that most, if not all of the rumors you have heard about me are true." A sort of fierce pride showed on the man's face.

The robes now made sense. A symbol of office, most likely, and, more significantly, the sign of a magic user. The boy let Valerian's soothing baritone fill his ears, as he began to study him. The name was one he had heard before. A master sorcerer. As good with a blade as with a spell. Equal parts thief and assassin, when it suited. However, the elfling had never connected the tales of this adventurer with the escapades of the Dragonborn.

"And what is your name, lad?" the mage asked, his calculating gaze meeting the boy's. He appeared genuinely interested in the boy's answer. The lad thought for a moment. This was a chance to change his past. He could effectively become anyone, and, if he survived whatever this man had in store for him, could make a fresh start. With a heavy heart, however, the boy knew there was no denying who he was. There were too many memories, too many regrets for one so young, and, knowing he couldn't escape his past, the boy resigned himself to his present.

"Valmir," he said. "My name is Valmir Graywatch." The Dragonborn nodded gravely, clearly understanding the gravity of the boy's heritage.

"Well met, Valmir. I think we will have much to discuss when we reach Lakeview. For now, rest. We have a long journey ahead of us," he gestured to the bottom of the carriage, where a sort of nest had been made out of blankets and pillows. Clearly, the man was accustomed to long journeys, and had prepared himself.

Reluctantly, Valmir wrapped himself in the blankets. The rumbling of the carriage slowly faded, becoming a murmur at the edge of his hearing. He let the rocking motion carry him away, and, ever so slowly, Valmir drifted into Vaermina's realm.

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_He was in a courtyard. A fountain bubbled mirthfully at its center. Sitting at the edge, gazing at the lotus flowers floating within, sat his mother. He called out to her, and her gaze lifted. A smile blossomed on her face. She beckoned to him, laughing. The sound filled the courtyard, clear and sweet. He ran to her, and she pulled him close. She began to sing softly, as she always did. He joined her, and, trading verses, they told the tale of a brave young elf, who rose from nothing to become a powerful warrior, and a paragon to his people. As the last, sweet note faded from the air, a cry reached the courtyard. It filled Valmir's ears, deafening, rattling across his mind. All sound faded. Valmir saw his father stagger into the courtyard. He readied himself, thinking it was a test. But… no… his father's eyes were wrong. Glassy. Staring at nothing. He fell. It was then that Valmir saw the axe buried between his shoulder blades. His mother rose, a soundless cry of anguish escaping her lips. She was pushing him towards the exit. Away from his father. Away from her. That word. That cry from earlier. Her lips formed it now. Pushing him. Why was she pushing him? He had to help father. Father was hurt. Why? Why was she doing this? Men were streaming into the courtyard. Men with weapons. Weapons with blood. His mother threw up a ward in front of them, still pushing him. The wall of magic seemed to shudder once, before disappearing. It was then that sound seemed to come roaring back into the world, deafening. A high pitched whine. An arrow sprouted from his mother's shoulder. She seemed not to feel it, a look of rage turning her soft features to stone. Lightning arced, blinding, the smell of ozone filling the air. The men crumpled, writhing, turning to ash. But then, another arrow. His mother staggered. She looked confused. Another arrow buzzed across the courtyard. It struck her, and she was flung around. Her eyes, unseeing, but her lips forming that word. She seemed to fall. Too slowly. The world wasn't right. The waters of the fountain parted, enveloping her. Red. The waters were red. He turned. That word. He had to obey. It filled him, drawing him away, into darkness. Into solitude._

"_Run."_

_He wasn't fast enough._

* * *

He awoke, gasping. Valerian sat above him, looking down, eyes filled with pity. His hand seemed to glow.

"Sleep," he said. Valmir sat back, his eyes heavy, and, once more, he fell into a deep slumber. His dreams troubled him no more.

When he next woke, it was to the soft light of dawn, peeking between his eyelids. The sounds of birds surrounded him as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and shook the troubling dreams from his thoughts.

"Look, boy," said Valerian, pointing. "There, at the edge of the lake." A large manor rose from the mists. Three towers peeked over the tree tops, braziers flickering at their open peaks. Smoke rose from a large central chimney and another, smaller one on the right wing of the house. The central hall stood prominently, two stories high, with single story wings on its left, right, and back sides. These had flat roofs, on which were tables and chairs where one could enjoy the views of the lake and surrounding countryside. To the side of the house, the simple livestock milling in their pens did not seem to mesh properly with the vision of wealth and power that this homestead offered. Valmir's mouth hung wide, shocked. This was a residence fit for a Jarl. The High King himself would have been impressed, he thought to himself.

"Welcome to Lakeview Manor," said Valerian, as the carriage ground to a halt. "Come. Your punishment awaits you."

The boy gulped. Filled with trepidation, and held firmly in the clutches of imagined tortures, Valmir climbed down from the carriage. Feet dragging, he followed the Dragonborn, ready to face his fate.

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A/N: So! If you've made it this far, you finally know what our main character's name is! Don't worry, names will be more forthcoming in the future! We also see a little of Valmir's troubled past. His dreams will play a large part of this story (if it goes the way it's laid out in my head). I am still in search of a beta! Please, apply! Also, don't forget to comment and review! Thanks all!


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